Looking for a place to Happen

Loneliness comes as a woman's voice in the night,
echoing restless, as if to say: 'it'll be alright.'
I beg to differ, the hours-old coffee murmurs,
absent of all substance, except the brown whispers
lurking at the bottom of my awareness, a prayer
for recognition that I'm only too happy to ignore;
sighing, I change the station, preferring calm static
to the whispery demands of coffee cup voices.

Just outside of St. Catharine's, Grimsby actually,
I find companionship in a deserted donut shop,
Tim Horton's, sitting and calmly sipping her tea.
Seeing my glance, beckoning me beyond a mop
left carelessly to trip-up the wrong man should
he approach – guess I passed that test alright.
Auburn-haired and lovely, more so than I could
ever have imagined, everything looks about right.

'Hey Miss, 'scuse me but are you lookin' for a place
to happen?' my voice echoes loudly, surely my face
is turning red. She smiles, nods, then says 'y'know
you're not the first to show,' looking at her watch,
'I've been here since...god, who knows?' She shows
more skin, just a quick flash of white as her legs
un-cross then cross again. 'I'm dying for you to do
that one again. Will you come with me?'

Grimsby fading into the distance, cold blacktop
stretching onwards to the horizon; a fresh coffee
in the cup holder and some fine jazz on the radio.
Companionship's lipstick stains the rim of my cup
and I can taste her in it when I drink – transforming
heat into a dual-purpose serving elixir: returning my
humanity for a brief twenty minutes and giving me
the boost I need to continue onwards. Ever onwards.

Looking for a place to happen.